


Brothers in Arms

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-08-10
Updated: 2000-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tragedy calls Billy home a year after the band splits up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers in Arms

**Author's Note:**

> I was innocently playing cards with my parents last night, and Billy sat down next to me on the counter, lit up a cigarette, and told me a story. By the time he finished, it was five o'clock in the morning I was so tired I couldn't move, but the story was done. This takes place a year after the band broke up and three years before the beginning of the movie. Not my toys. Melissa beta'ed this one as well.
> 
> Melissa did a fantastic job at beta'ing this, and I love her whole bunches. Billy and Joe don't belong to me

The ringing of the phone dragged him up to the surface of his dream, but he fought it. Opening his eye would mean he would have to admit the hangover and the scum in his mouth actually existed and wasn't just a part of the fucked-up dream he'd been having.

The answering machine kicked in, and the damned ringing stopped. "...cornchips and masturbating," came from the next room, so he pushed away the headache through sheer will and pulled the blankets up. He had spent last night in a hole, playing back-up to a band that sucked, whose lead singer didn't know what the fuck he was doing. The head prick had handed him a handful of greasy sheet notes full of crap, and the songs they had tried to cover were completely unrecognizable. Billy had eventually just given up and started just playing whatever, and that made the evening passable. Prick gave him a handful of bills at the end of the night without promising to call him again.

"Bill?" a voice asked. Billy squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to force his body to sleep. "Bill... If you're there, pick up the phone. It's your father."

Billy threw off the blankets and stumbled into the next room. His single phone was on the floor next to a moldy pizza box and a milk carton that he used as a table. His headache returned with a flare, and his stomach twisted viciously as he groped for the phone through bleary eyes.

"Dad?" his voice cracked as spoke, and he collapsed onto the stained couch. His amps and his guitar were against the far wall, but the surrounding circle was the only place the brown carpet showed. The assorted crap actually looked better by comparison.

"Bill, are you..." his father hesitated.

Billy cleared his throat and rubbed his face. "Sorry, dad, I uh... just woke up," he said, clawing at his watch to turn the face around. It was just past ten.

Thirty-two years old and he still subconsciously winced at his father's disapproval. The old man cleared his throat and tried again. "Bill, your mother... had an attack last night. They took her to the hospital, but she... they couldn't do anything for her, and she...died. I think you should come home."

Billy shook his head. "What... what time?" he asked. He had better control over his voice. His headache was forgotten about, but he felt sick again, and the dizziness had nothing to do with the hangover. He waited for the pain he knew he should feel, but nothing came.

"Two thirty," his father said.

He had been masturbating with his guitar on stage while his mother died. He closed his eyes and rubbed them viciously with the palm of his hand. He had thick blankets over his window, but suddenly he needed light. He turned stood up, stretching out the phone cord as he reached for the string. The bare bulb sparked and then lit up the rest of the room. Billy kicked the pizza box under the couch.

"Bill?"

The voice in his ear startled him. Billy shook his head. "Yeah. Still... still here."

"I want you to come home. They'll be a ticket waiting for you at the airport."

Good old dad. Always looking after him. Billy rubbed his face again. Fuck. "Yeah, I'll... I'll be there."

"Good. We'll be waiting at the airport. Four o'clock."

"Yeah," Billy said.

"See you soon, Bill."

"Yeah," Billy repeated. "Dad, I'm... uh... sorry."

"Me too."

His father hung up. Billy dropped the phone and looked around the room. He packed up his guitar carefully so that it would survive customs, and then threw some clothes in a bag. He tried to keep track of mundane things like socks, but his mind had shut down. He operated on automatic, and somehow got to the airport in time. The ticket-lady gave him his ticket, and he collapsed down in the departure lounge. He needed a smoke, but deliberately starved himself. The need in his body started to make him twitch, but it kept the other emotions away.

Vancouver smelled different. Cleaner. The customs officials took one look at his dark sunglasses in the middle of the afternoon and his guitar case, and they pulled him off to the side. He had nothing on him, but the officials were reluctant to admit it. They forced him to wait an hour as they went through his two bags, but eventually they let him go.

The rain that had been threatening when they landed was pelting the window by the time the officials finally let him go, and he slung his bag over his shoulder. His father and Sean waited for him in the chairs outside of customs, but only his father stood up. He held out his arms, and Billy tried not to stiffen too much. Sean looked at him with more distrust than the customs officials.

"Sean," Billy said.

Sean stood up, and his black suit hadn't wrinkled. They had never really been close; Sean had been a hockey and football star and now was an accountant. "William."

Billy ran a hand through his hair, and Sean touched his own smooth scalp. Sean had always had thick black hair, it was odd to see it half gone already. Sean held out his hand, but it was only to take the overnight bag. Billy gave it over, and their father motioned them to leave.

He hated Vancouver.

They took him home. Billy walked from room to room, but there was still no sign of his mother's absence. She had a half a pack of her menthol cigarettes sitting next to her chair, and her bag of knitting still rested against the back of her wall. He knew the smell would fade quickly, but if he remained still for a moment he could still smell traces of the flowery perfume she wore every time she left the house. She wasn't dead, she was only... absent. He went up to his room.

His father had left him a dark suit on his old bed, but he ignored it. He sat down on his windowsill instead. His father was a mechanic, and had provided for the family his whole life. The house wasn't big, but they had soundproofed the attic for him once he started to play. He had put up posters as a teenager, and the angry rock stars that looked down at him hadn't aged very well. The glossy paper had yellowed and curled, leaving only jaundice and distortions.

The room smelled stale, and when he pushed open the door it had scraped back a layer of dust off the floor in a perfect arc. The tree outside his window had been pruned since he left, and the big branch he used to use to scale down and meet Joe had been hacked back. The stump looked old and weathered.

"Bill?"

Billy turned around, startled. His father stood in the doorway, and for the first time Billy saw him as an old man. His fingers were as callused as Billy's, but for different reasons. Billy glanced down to his own hands, but he didn't have his father's short, fat fingers. It came as a shock to see him that way, but then he had to remind himself that he wasn't even in his twenties any more. He was old, his posters were old, and his old man was ancient.

"The... funeral is tomorrow. Your aunt would like us to visit."

Billy rubbed his face. "Yeah."

"You need to... change, Bill."

Billy glanced down to his torn sweatshirt and then back up to his father. The clothes he brought weren't much better, but he didn't know what to say. His father pulled open closet door to the new clothes hanging up, and then left.

Billy took off his sunglasses and got changed into the jeans and sweater. They hung off him, but the sweater was warm. He had forgotten how damp Vancouver was in March. He wanted to drink enough whiskey to pass out on his bed and not move until the funeral, but he spent the evening at his aunt's house instead.

Aunt Jess met them at the door. She hugged his father, and then kissed he and Sean on the cheek. She reached down to squeeze his hand, but he pulled away. He had sat in the backseat while his father had driven, and listening to his and Sean's conversation had slowly turned the numbness to anger. He didn't want to spread his venom, and after only a heartbeat, Aunt Jess smiled like she understood. She showed them to the living room, and motioned Billy to sit in the single recliner across the room. His hands started to shake from being sober too long, and he hid them by pressing them under his arms. Aunt Jess spoke with his father and brother on the other side of the room for almost an hour, and her husband sat next to her with his arm around her. Eventually, she glanced across the room to Billy.

She motioned to him, and he followed her out of the house. She sat down on the porch swing and patted the seat next to her. He sat down, and she pulled a full bottle out of the planter next to the seat.

Billy closed his eyes and almost thanked God. "You looked like you could use this," she said.

He took the bottle from her and unscrewed the cap. The whiskey burned his throat and splashed against his stomach walls, but at least his hands had stopped shaking. "Thanks," he said as he wiped his mouth off.

He pulled out a crumpled pack of smokes and offered her one, but she waved him away. She took the bottle from him, and he sheltered the flame from the lighter as lit up. He sat down next to her, and closed his eyes. The sudden rush of nicotine calmed him almost as much as the alcohol did, and he relaxed.

Jessica picked up one of his hands, and she turned it over on her lap. "You have her hands," she said, tracing out the calluses. "How is LA?"

"Fucked," he said. "Twisted, vacant assholes."

"Are you finding work?" she asked as he took the bottle from her again. Three long swallows later, his body stopped hurting.

"Sometimes. I pay my rent." The rain had stopped while they were inside, and the smell of it against the winter killed grass and pavement didn't have any of the filth of the LA streets. It was calm, but dead.

"You have talent, Billy. You always have."

He snorted, but didn't answer her. "You do. I saw you, Billy. You looked so... calm."

Calm. No one had ever described performing with Joe as... calm. He laughed, and took another swig of whiskey. He gave it back to her, and she capped it to replace in its hiding place. "When do you go back?" she asked.

"I've got a gig on Thursday," he said.

"Three days. Get out of here as soon as you can, Billy. This isn't the place for you."

Billy took one last drag and stubbed out the cigarette. "I know," he said. She stood up, and he followed her back inside. He was able to sit back and enjoy the slight buzz of the alcohol as it warmed him from the inside. It wasn't nearly enough to make him drunk, but he was relaxed.

He spent the night in his crappy little captain's bed, but it had been sanitized. Every time he rolled over the plastic under the sheets crackled. None of this seemed real, like it was just another fucked up dream. His mother was dead. His mother... was dead. His mother was... dead. It seemed unreal. He had passed out on his bed the night before, drunk, exhausted, and empty, and woke up the next morning with his mother dead. He lay in the cold bed, and clean sheets that touched his naked skin seemed odd. The streetlight outside his window provided enough light to see the rafters over him. And the spider webs between them comforted him somewhat. Some living thing had been here since he left.

His mother hadn't really been a factor growing up. Neither one of his parents had. They were too focused on Sean. Billy winced at how awkward he had been as a kid. He tripped over himself while his brother flew across the ice, and it wasn't until he picked up a guitar for the first time that he felt good at something.

Joe had found him in grade school. Even then, Joe had been an asshole. Billy's parents hadn't noticed the initial friendship forming, and by the time it had, it was too late to stop it. Joe lived with his alcoholic old man, who beat the shit out of Joe regularly. Rather than make Joe behave, it made him wilder. Every beating made Joe push back. The personality had never really changed.

Joe enthralled him, even when they were just kids. Joe inspired him. Separate, Billy had felt like nothing, but with Joe he could let himself wake up and become aware. The awareness had its price, but Joe needed him to be there, to be his witness, his audience, and his safeguard.

He would wake up in the middle of the night to hear scratching from the window. It got to the point where Billy didn't even wake up. He'd shuffle to the window, let Joe in, and they'd crawl back into bed together. When they got older, Joe would throw pebbles against the window when he wanted Billy to come down, and Billy would climb down and join him, but even in high school, Joe still scratched at the window and crawled into bed with him. It wasn't strange or queer; it was... Joe.

Billy finally forced himself to close his eyes. His left hand made chords into the sheets, but for once the music in his head didn't put him to sleep. Sean had walked in on them once. He had been home from college and he burst into Billy's room. Joe's arm was over his chest and it was pretty clear that Joe's leg was tangled in his, but before he could explain, Sean had turned around and left. He tried to go after his brother, but Joe pushed him back to the mattress and shifted so that he used Billy's chest as a pillow. Billy sighed, but closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

He rolled over onto his side and turned on the light. Sleep wasn't going to happen, and he reached for a pen and a pad of paper to write down the music. It was the only thing that wasn't fucked in his life.

  
#

  
The next day, Billy tugged on his sleeve as his mother's casket was lowered into the ground. The grass at his feet was still mostly brown, but the rain the day before had given the new grass a chance. Green shoots and his mother's funeral. There was a song in there somewhere, but his head was too full of static to work with it. Sobriety had returned again, and it made staring at the polished wood of the casket almost impossible. He had left his sunglasses on the dresser in his old room, and he wanted them almost as much as he wanted another drink, for the same reason. One more thing to hide behind. He felt naked, exposed and dissected standing by the graveside, and although his ears filtered out the conversation from most of the mourners, he knew part of the conversations were about him. They were background noise as much as feedback from the mike was.

Sean had his arm around a woman, but he spent more time glancing across the open grave at him than he did at her. Billy met his stare blankly. None of this was real. His hands moved against his thigh, and he shoved it in his pocket. The sun was too blue and he was too sober for this to feel like a part of his life. His mother was dead. She had been dead to him for much longer. Sean hadn't told their father that Joe had been in bed with him, but he did tell their mother. He told her he wasn't a faggot, but when she continued to press him he had finally gotten up from the kitchen table and just left. Joe had been about to climb up the tree, and didn't ask any questions about where they were going.

That was the first time they got drunk enough to actually black out. For three days they had slept in Stanley Park, gotten shit-faced, and lived in their music. The songs they created had been shit, but it didn't matter. He returned home on Monday, and neither one of his parents mentioned his absence. Sean had already gone back to school, and an all-new silence filled the house.

  
#

  
The reception was hell. Billy went back upstairs for his sunglasses, and then sat in the living room with a cold beer and a cigarette and ignored everything around him. Sean and his father moved around the room to accept condolences, but Billy didn't feel up to it. He glanced down to his watch, but not even the casual acquaintances looked ready to leave. The smell of shitty casseroles came from the kitchen as matronly women bustled between the table and the oven.

Billy had enough. He put down his empty and stood up, but didn't make it half way down the front lawn when he heard his name being called. He turned around, and groaned as Sean followed him down the walkway.

"Where are you going?" Sean demanded.

Billy hugged his suit jacket to his body. "Out," he said. He suddenly felt half his age and resented it. "Why do you give a shit?"

"Your mother was buried today," Sean snapped.

"No shit. Back off, Sean," Billy said. His hands in his pockets balled into fists, and Billy forced himself to relax them.

"You ungrateful little shit," Sean said. His voice sounded odd. There wasn't any anger in it, just... disappointment.

Billy smiled at him, baring his fangs. Sean stepped back, and Billy turned around and left.

All the bars in the immediate area had closed down through some fucker's concept of urban renewal. He walked past several bars that had been yuppified, and finally found a bar that stunk of beer, sweat and piss as he walked past it. He stopped, turned around, and went in.

He missed Canadian beer. He put down a blue five-dollar bill, and after only a year in LA, he found himself thinking how monopoly-like the money was. The bartender pulled him a Molson Ice off the draft, and he moved to a booth. The place was half full, and the smoke in the air blurred the lines of the neon signs.

He stayed until just after one. He was drunk, but still pleasantly warm from the alcohol that it mellowed him. He ignored the bartender's suggestion of a cab as he bought a six-pack on off sales. He wanted to walk home. The cool night air helped wake him up, and he realized once he got back to his house that he didn't have a key to the house any more. The door was unlocked even with all the lights off, and the house smelled of scorched cheese. The kitchen and dining room were cluttered with dishes that were visible in the dim illumination from the outside streetlight. Billy moved silently up the stairs to his own room, holding his beer bottles tightly to keep them from clanking.

He turned on his light and sat down on his bed, ignoring the plastic. He took out his guitar and rested it on his knee, but he barely had time to light up a smoke when something smacked against the glass of his window.

Billy hesitated, and then went back to his cigarettes. A second clattering of stones hit, both larger and harder, and put down his guitar and went downstairs. Joe was the last person he wanted to see, but for some reason he ran down the stairs. At least with Joe, their relationship couldn't get any lower.

Joe looked up from where he leaned against the tree. "They cut down your branch," he said.

"I know," Billy said.

Joe looked at him, and Billy stared back. His feet froze against the cold grass. "How did you know I was here?" he asked.

"Your light was on."

"You're checking my light?" Billy asked. He wanted to feel angry, to remember why they had broken up, but being back in his parents' home reminded him of the rest of the times. He looked down for a heartbeat, and Joe looked at him.

He followed Joe up to the attic. Joe looked around the room in disgust. "It's a mausoleum," he said. "What the fuck are you doing here, Billy?"

"My mom died," Billy said.

Joe shot him a disgusted look. "I knew that. What are you doing here?"

Billy shook his head. Joe picked up the guitar off the bed, and sat down with it. "Tell me, you making big bucks down in LA?" he asked.

Billy shook his head. "Small bucks. Hardly bucks at all."

"But you're going back."

"First thing tomorrow morning."

Joe looked up at him. He hadn't changed, but then only a year had passed. It seemed a lifetime. He never thought he would feel uncomfortable around Joe, but he did. It stood between them, holding them to arms length. No closer, but no further away, either. Joe plucked at a string, and the sound was mocking. Billy turned away and opened the plain paper bag. He offered one to Joe, who took it with an amused smile. "Would you rather be wearing a gauntlet?" he asked.

"Oh, fuck you."

"I thought that was the problem."

Billy found himself blushing. Thirty-two years old and blushing like a boy. It was the place. Joe stood up, tisking. "This is disappointing. The great Billy Tallent coming home to daddy's house."

Anger flared. He didn't know what he had expected from Joe other than completely Joe-like behaviour, but it pissed him off anyway. He cracked his beer and finished half of it before saying anything. "William Boisy 's mother died. So drink your beer and get out."

"Poor Billy," Joe said, and put his beer on the bedside table. He took a step closer, but Billy didn't step back to Joe's deliberate intimidation. Rather than making him angry, Joe actually smiled and pulled a baggie from his pocket. "Let's get stupid and commiserate together."

Just like old times. Billy sat down on the bed, and Joe joined him a moment later. Joe lit a joint and took a deep drag, and held it long enough to make Billy's lungs hurt sympathetically. When Joe passed it over, Billy took it. The smell of the smoke was enough to make the back of his throat ache with remembered need.

He dragged the smoke into his lungs, and the acrid warm burn filled him. He held it, letting the world start to swim, and then slowly exhaled. "Wow," he said.

Joe took it from him, dragged on it again, and then offered it back. Billy shook his head, feeling enough rush as it was, and Joe snubbed it out with his fingers. The beer had warmed up some since the bar, but it still felt great against his throat as he drank, and it worked with the buzz. "So what's LA like?" Joe asked. He took Billy's beer from him even though his own sweated half full on the table. "Lots of chicks?"

Billy laughed. "Not at the shit-holes I play in," he said. Confession time. He rubbed his face again, and then looked up, bleary. "What about you?" he asked. He took the bottle back and finished it, but brought them both back a new one.

Joe lit up again. Billy realized he hadn't eaten all day, and he was much drunker than he thought he was. After Joe clanked the base of their bottles together and then held his up in a salute, he took a sip of the new beer, but couldn't feel the glass against his bottom lip. Joe coughed, and when he turned to look at him, his view didn't stop moving even after he stopped moving his head.

"You know, I'm Joe Dick. People come to see me," Joe said, and held out the joint. Billy went to take it, but Joe held it back just out of reach. Billy looked up, suddenly understanding the game, and bent his head forward. Joe brought it to his lips, and held it there while Billy sucked back the smoke. By the time he opened his eyes again, he was feeling almost giggly.

He clamped his hands over his mouth to keep the undignified sound under control, and then made a face. "Joe Dick," he said. He almost giggled again, and it took a long time to control the urge. "Big bucks?" he asked. Shit, he forgot how pot hit him.

Joe placed his beer bottle between Billy's lips and poured in enough to make him need to either swallow or choke. Billy accepted it as a change of conversation. The beer was now warm, but he drank it anyway. When Joe finally let him breathe, he gasped once, and then Joe moved next to him.

The sudden rush of beer when he had already been buzzed perfectly suddenly changed the swimming sensation to a drowning one. He pushed away, suddenly needing to clear his head, but Joe used the confusion to strip him of his jacket. Billy didn't want to fight, but Joe wasn't letting him help, either. "Never thought I'd see you in a suit, Billiam."

Billy moved to lie back, and Joe allowed him to. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensations of Joe working around his clothes, and when Joe finally manage to strip off his slacks and stroke him, Billy almost arched off the bed. He forced himself to open his eyes just so he could watch Joe. The room hadn't stopped its lazy gyrations, but he was learning to enjoy the sensations as they came to him. He wanted to say something to tell Joe how much he wanted it, but he couldn't even open his mouth. Joe didn't look like he needed to hear that shit anyway.

Joe's eyes shone. It wasn't the beer or the grass; it was something more possessive. Billy realized with the same part of his brain that kept him careful late at night and cut to the wind when walking through dark neighbourhoods, that he was naked and spread out in front of Joe. The rest of him was all for it.

In fact, he went to reach for the rest of him but Joe slapped his hand away. "No."

"No?" Billy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Joe only looked stern, and Billy tried not to laugh. "Then strip," he ordered.

"And what if I don't?" Joe challenged.

"I'll have to hurt you."

"You're too fucked to stand."

"There are plenty of places I can reach on my knees."

Billy forced himself to lean back on his elbows, and the pain from his shoulders was muted. Joe stripped off quickly; it didn't take long to take off an oversized sweater and jeans, but before Billy could complain about the lack of show, Joe gathered the blankets up and over his shoulders and he settled down over Billy's body.

Billy tensed again. The sudden warmth against him almost distracted him from the hard cock pressing against his pelvic bone. He was way too drunk and stoned to actually expect to come, and Joe was in no better shape. Billy pushed Joe away from him for a second, and Joe let him. "What?" he demanded. His voice was harsh, but Billy just smiled.

"I wanna watch, man," he said. Joe had put on weight. The body over him weighed more, and his cheeks were filled out. It gave him more substance, like he was part of the world for once. When they were teenagers Joe had enough energy that he vibrated all of the time, and his body had been nothing but hollows and tight skin. The new Joe was an improvement.

Billy ran his fingernail down Joe's cheek and scraped at the stubble. He traced out Joe's lips, and the sudden caress seemed to make Joe falter. He seemed almost unsure for a heartbeat. Lying on top of Billy with their cocks trapped between them hadn't surprised Joe at all, but sudden tenderness apparently had. Joe adjusted himself so that he could sit up on his elbows and grabbed both of Billy's wrists. Billy settled down and let himself be pinned as Joe rutted against him. For the first time since the phone call, Billy felt alive again. He tugged his wrists, trying to break free, but Joe met his eyes and deliberately let him go. Billy reared up, wrapping his arms around Joe, and Joe braced himself better against the bed to support both of their weights. Joe didn't kiss him, but he licked his way down from Billy's cheek to the base of his neck.

Billy almost felt himself come several times, but each time just as the rush began, it ended. He didn't mind it, it made Joe moving over him last longer. If he could have come, he would have already, and none of it would have happened. It was enough to just enjoy watching Joe move over him.

The bed started to bang against the wall as the thrusts became violent, but they didn't do anything to stop it. Finally Joe got off him in disgust and collapsed next to him. It was Billy's turn to drape himself over Joe, and despite how much his body dripped with sweat, he curled up to Joe's heat.

It had been such a small bed and the little attic trapped in so much heat during the day that some summer nights they had sprawled next to each other naked, but back then the contact of Joe's sweaty skin had made him press himself against the wall. This was different. He slid his hand down Joe's body and played with the curls before wrapping his fingers around Joe's cock.

"What time does your plane leave?"

"I'm cashing the ticket and taking the bus, man," Billy said, tiredly.

"What time does the bus leave?"

"Ten."

"Don't go."

"I have to."

"Billy, I'm telling you not to go."

Billy closed his eyes, ignoring the anger in Joe's voice. "Gotta," he said. He was already mostly asleep, and Joe didn't wake him up again.

He woke up a couple hours later alone in the bed. He sat up, trying to cough out the crap that was in the back of his throat, and saw Joe's empty bottle sitting on his table. He closed his eyes and forced himself to get out of bed. He could pretend this never happened as much as Joe could.

[End](hcl.htm)

 


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